


Promise Me

by brokenlittleboy



Series: Commissions [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Winchesters, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Men of Letters Bunker, Minor Character(s), Romance, Sleepy Kisses, Soulmates, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 03:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: Dean makes a promise to Sam. He'd already made a commitment to his brother in a church, but this time is more significant and meaningful. Their lives are already weird enough that one incestuous marriage proposal won't flip things upside down.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a commission for my awesome friend, Bella (gothpandawincest on tumblr). Thank you so much, beebs, love ya <3

 

They’ve been given a rare moment to themselves, and Dean had almost forgotten what it’s like to live without racing around the next corner with his gun in hand, heart in his throat. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to live with Sammy without fearing for his life or watching him cough up blood.

During times like these, Dean forces Sam to turn off his alarm. Dean hates the damn things, and he always feels better when he wakes up naturally, even though naturally for him is late afternoon and Sam is a chronic early bird.

Today, though, is some kinda miracle, ‘cause Dean stirs, stretching his toes and squinting at the beams of molten sunlight spreading across the ceiling, and Sam’s still beside him, sound asleep. 

It’s a damn tragedy that sleepy Sam is one of life’s simple pleasures and Dean rarely gets to witness it. Sam isn’t antisocial, he’s not angry or bitter or anything like that, but when he wakes up all the way he puts up walls. Dean understands, he really does- hell, he’s pretty sure he does the same damn thing- but it makes something catch in his throat. He remembers Sam as a child, bright and open and happy and so affectionate, so giggly, and god. The contrast pulls at all the scars he’s gained over the years, inside and out.

When Sam’s only half-awake, he’s still loose and pliant, still trusting, still young. 

Dean stares at the shape of Sam’s back under the sheets. In the late morning light, he looks so… warm. Like a cozy cup of the frothy chocolatey drinks that Sam treats himself to every once in awhile. Curled up on his side, he doesn’t look so big. The curve of his waist and his hips is a gentle, soft slope, and his long hair draped across the pillow can only be described as graceful.

He’s just perfect. He is. Dean used to shy away from all the kind of shit, from calling Sam beautiful, because it rang of things he wasn’t vulnerable enough to say yet. At first, he could delude himself by pretending the beds they shared were for necessity, for lust, for nothing else. Not anymore. Not for awhile, really, but he’s comfortable enough to say it to himself now. He tastes no guilt, nothing sour.

All he wants to taste is Sam.

Dean reaches out, hand landing on the broad plane of Sam’s shoulder. His fingers curl in the edge of the sheet and he lowers it to Sam’s waist, revealing his bare, smooth skin. 

Dean rubs Sam’s back, fingers dancing from mole to mole. He knows where each one lies without having to look. He maps a constellation of love across Sam, and Sam sighs, making a soft noise in his sleep.

Dean pulls his legs up and kicks the sheets off the bed. Sam’s dozing in just a pair of boxer briefs, and even though Dean’s mind is in a mushy-mushy cuddly state, his mouth waters. Sam isn’t just beautiful, he’s hot as hell. Dean stopped trying to figure out that puzzle long ago. He’d convinced himself he loved big tits and bubbly blondes, but they’d only ever gotten his dick wet, and now they don’t even do that. Sam’s the only person Dean has ever met, Cassie and Lisa included, that is the full fucking package. 

Dean learned about the types of love in a drowsy tenth grade literature class, agape love, all that shit he can barely remember, but there’s one thing he recalls with absolute clarity: even then, even back then, he’d known Sam somehow fit into all those kinds of adoration, that Sam had managed to squeeze into every little crack Dean had and fill him up.

Usually, it doesn’t phase Dean. They grew up being each other’s all; it wasn’t some romance for the ages, some chest-bursting feeling or anything like that. While they’d both tried for a different kind of normal multiple times, it was their standard setting, their bones quiet and at ease.

This morning is an exception. Dean wants to touch, to hold close, to get Sam to know how he’s loved, to say all the words crawling up his throat with renewed desperation. He stays quiet, swallowing it down, knowing that much emotion can’t be articulated properly, at least not by him. Sam’s the writer. Sam could try.

Dean slides his hand over to Sam’s waist and runs it down the slopes and angles of Sam’s side, all the way down his ass. His hands wander there, squeezing lightly and petting.

Damn their hunter’s lifestyle, their cat-nap habits. Sam makes a questioning noise the moment Dean plays with the waistband of his boxer briefs.

“Mmmnph,” Sam says, rolling halfway onto his back and looking over his shoulder at Dean, face partially obscured by his adorable bed hair. “What’re y’doin’?”

“Just admirin’ the goods,” Dean says, and gives Sam’s ass a mild slap. He’s mesmerized at this point. It’s not often his eyes are allowed to wander.

“The goods, huh?” Sam asks, mostly sleepy, a little dry. He rolls onto his back, head flopping back onto the pillow as he grins lazily at Dean.

God, those eyes. Fox-tilted and narrowed to mere slits, the low lighting makes it look like Sam’s eyes are covered in mascara and eyeshadow. His face is full of feminine allure, of unique angles and bowed lips, and Dean wonders where the hell Sam’s looks came from. He feels like Sam’s features must hail from some long-forgotten relative, ‘cause he’s more fae than Mom or Dad. Dean’s not complaining.

Sam quirks an eyebrow in silent question, but the smirk on his lips tells a different story. He knows Dean’s looking and the little bastard is enjoying it. Dean won’t admit it, but he could cry--Sam usually doesn’t understand any attraction toward him, has an understanding of his own body similar to a beginner puppeteer. In these morning moments, though, Sam’s comfortable, and he knows his own endowments.

Sam shifts, stretching, body arching in a slow wave, and the sunlight hits his eyes in just the right way to strike liquid ambers and blues to life like something ethereal and otherworldly. That’s when Dean can no longer resist, and he gets onto his hands and knees and settles himself over Sam’s long, heated body.

 

Sam looks up at him and the curve of his smile stretches wider, splitting long, cavernous dimples into his cheeks. Dean leans forward and captures Sam’s mouth in a kiss. Sam kisses back willingly, and Dean sighs out of his nose, shifting until he’s comfortable and kissing Sam over and over again.

 

Their lips get shiny and sensitive and his boxers feel a bit too constricting but Dean doesn’t stop. His hands gain minds of their own, restlessly crawling across Sam’s body, squeezing his pecs, his tummy, caressing his collarbone, groping his thighs. Sam’s body moves with Dean’s touches, twitching, muscles contracting, hips bucking up and down, conflicted, not knowing which touch to chase.

 

Dean breaks away from Sam’s mouth and presses a sloppery dog-lick to Sam’s cheek, right at his best mole. Sam sputters, pawing at Dean’s chest, pushing him away. Dean goes, sitting up and grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up over his head. He throws it off the bed and it’s immediately forgotten by both parties.

 

Sam’s eyes go all dark and murky-feral. His big hands come up and lightly brush across Dean’s tummy, down through his happy trail, causing goosebumps to stir all across Dean’s flesh. 

 

Dean looks down and licks his lips at the big, obvious outline of Sam’s hard cock in his briefs. Part of him wants to take his time, to savor in all of this, in all of Sam, but Dean’s own dick is way too insistent for that kind of foreplay. He needs Sam, and he needs him now.

 

Dean takes control and wiggles out of his own boxers, cock bouncing free and curving up against his stomach, the head already glistening with a bead of precome. Sam’s eyes skate lower and his mouth falls open, tongue dancing between his teeth.

 

“Good, huh?” Dean growls, too turned on for more coherent dirty talk, cock twitching at the full-body shiver Sammy does. Kid loves when Dean’s voice turns to gravel.

 

Dean wraps a lazy hand around his shaft, enjoying the warmth, the pulse of it. He tugs loosely at himself, not trying to get off, just trying to get some stimulation. Sam’s even more wiggly now, moving almost constantly, searching for friction.

 

“C’mon, Sammy, get those things off,” Dean urges, voice going rougher and lower with each word.

 

Sam complies silently, eyes drawn to Dean’s as he gets his fingers under the waistband and lifts his ass up, sliding the material slowly, slowly down, until it’s at his ankles. He kicks it off the bed.

 

Sam stretches again, yawning, smiling at Dean with a glint to his eye. “This good?” he asks, but he obviously knows the answer. Yes, it’s good. It’s the best shit in town.

 

Sam’s cock is pink and long. His balls are smooth and drawn up. He’s already close, just from this. Jesus. Something about that just makes any self restraint Dean has left fly out the window. He lets out some incoherent swears and spits into his hand, slicking up his cock. He spits again and reaches down to curl a fist around Sam’s base. He jerks Sam off rough and quick, getting his dick shiny with spit. 

 

Sam gasps, panting, rolling his hips like a… like a, god, Dean can’t think. Like a sex machine. Sex god machine. 

 

He learned it all from Dean, of course.

 

Dean leans down to kiss Sam deeply, fucking up against his little brother, their cocks rubbing and sliding together. Sam kisses him back hungrily, growling, tongue probing Dean’s mouth, swiping all over his mouth. They swap spit like teenagers, grinding against each other like porn stars.

 

Dean loses himself in the sensation, groaning into Sam’s mouth when Sam reaches down between them and uses his giant hands to take both of them in his grip. He jerks them off in time with the motion of their hips, and far too soon, intensely heated pressure grips Dean’s entire body and he bites down on Sam’s bottom lip, entire body convulsing as he comes on Sam’s chest in long white ropes.

 

Sam throws his head back against the pillow, bearing his neck. This is definitely one of Dean’s favorite parts. Sam is the most sensitive motherfucker around, and especially around his neck. Dean sucks a bruise into the space above the dip between his collarbones, still moving his body, Sam’s hand still moving, faster and faster, losing rhythm as Sam’s breathing gets shallower and shallower.

 

It’s not long before Sam cries out, shaking like an old muscle car with a dilapidated engine. He comes in long pulses, way more than should be humanly possible, one after another, each pulse accompanied by Sam’s body going taut, little whimpers just barely escaping his lips.

 

Dean rolls off of Sam and collapses onto his back beside him. They’re pressed up together in a sweaty, overheated mess. Dean closes his eyes, grinning. They lay there together, slowly returning to their bodies, for ages.

 

It’s definitely the best “good morning” Dean has had in awhile. He’s feeling light, he’s feeling like he’s rid himself of long-lingering, sticky clouds, and he’s gonna take advantage of it. He’s gonna take advantage of their break, and bury himself in Sam’s soft beauty and never emerge.

 

***

 

Dean rides the high through the rest of the day. The positive tint to his vision lingers. He’s ten years younger somehow. It rubs off on Sam, pun intended. Sam’s bouncier- even his god damn hair- and he smiles easily, and he eats. He eats like a jaded slob, and the sight of it is a sharp oasis for Dean. 

 

They fuck around the Bunker for a while, eating, watching movies, jerking each other off. Even though Dean’s dreamed of doing fuck-all for months, he does get restless. Sam reads him, clear as the first day of Spring, and they head outside. 

 

Instead of hopping into the Impala, they hop onto her hood, sprawling out against the warm metal and staring up at the sky. It’s a warm day, with a blue sky dotted with thin, cottony clouds. They sip at lukewarm beers, looking around at the buds on the spindly trees, not saying much.

 

It’s comfort, it’s security. Dean finds his mind wandering, and he allows it to go wherever it pleases. As long as Sam’s by his side like this, he’s not afraid of the things lurking in his mind. He’s not afraid of anything.

 

God. He’s stuck on a loop, a boring, normal person loop. He just can’t get Sam out of his head. Every part of Sam. He admires him over and over again, brain raising a fuss over things Dean knows like the back of his hand. Everything’s new all over again, but so, so, familiar, so therapeutic. It’s like the fish he had when he was four. It was his beloved pet, and he must’ve spent half of every day sitting cross-legged in front of the tank, just watching the damn thing swim. It didn’t matter how often he looked at the little orange scales, how familiar he became with its mannerisms and patterns. It was just as good each time.

 

Sam’s always just as good. Even when they’re fuckin’ pissed at each other, seeing Sam’s face after an absence removes a wedge in Dean’s heart that he hadn’t even known was growing there.

 

Dean just wants Sam to know. He wants Sam to know… that it’s there. Forever. That Dean will be there forever. He wants to show it, more like. He thinks Sam knows it, deep down, even if the stupid kid will doubt it sometimes. He wants Sam to have a reminder. To push the doubts away if Dean’s not around to do it himself.

 

God damn, Dean thinks he might want to marry Sam or something.

 

He first things it as a joke, smiles and squints into the sun at the thought.

 

But a second later the smile’s wiped off his face. It’s not funny, ‘cause it’s not a joke.

 

Dean’s really fucking serious.

 

He wants to marry Sam.

 

Well, fuck.

 

***

 

Dean tentatively enters the Planning Stage after he can admit to himself that he wants to marry Sam without his brain flipping shit and/or shitting bricks. He can do this, right? Marriage doesn’t have to mean a white dress and a big church and an expensive party or whatever. And obviously for them it ain’t gonna mean tax benefits or a surname change or anything dumb like that.

 

It’s symbolic in it’s whole, and it’s something about them, not about anyone else. 

 

So Dean doesn’t care about a party or a pastor. He does care about the proposal, though. He has to ask Sam if he’s in it, too, if he gets it. If he gets The Thing between them and is tied to Dean like Dean’s tied to him. 

 

If there’s one traditional thing he’ll do about this whole big, confusing thing, it’s the rings. 

 

Dean has a ring given to him by his father. Sam has a necklace that Bobby had given to Sam to give to John that Sam had given to Dean instead who had thrown it out and then Sam had taken it back. Or something like that.

 

Dean knows they don’t need a symbol of their love. It’s not important. They aren’t really the type to keep all that many mementoes, though they both have a few. It’s more… the occasion. The mark of something new.

 

If he got Sam a ring like his, and hey, if he casually switched the hand that he wore his ring on, well, that would be a tangible moment, a contract, a promise. 

 

The idea gets more appealing the more Dean thinks about it. It’s pretty gay, he admits to himself, but anything with Sam goes out into space, light years beyond labels and simple terms.

 

(And Sammy’s always been a little gay, okay, pretty gay. Dean is more than happy to be gay with him, citing their entire damn lives from the teenage years onward as proof.)

 

He’s kind of tired of keeping it all stuffed up and shoved deep down, too. He’s tired of keeping up an exterior, brutish somethingrather with Sam when it suits him. They’re too damn old to keep this dance going. 

 

So marriage it is. 

 

Dean hasn’t felt this excited about something in years. He can remember feeling like lightning bugs were dancing inside of his belly when he’d surprised Sam with tickets to a little local Shakespeare show when Sam was eighteen. He can remember restless limbs, hyperactive minds, right before showing Sam a new, sparkly tablet for the first time.

 

It’s a good feeling. Right now, he’s got it times ten.

 

It means he’s gotta be a little shifty around Sam. If Sam sniffs out the puppy-like atmosphere of Dean’s psyche, he’ll keep sniffing, keep pushing, and Dean is sure as hell terrible at hiding surprises from Sam. Surprises of the happy-feel-good manner, at least. 

 

Sam claims to hate surprises, and thanks to their lives, he has good reason to, but c’mon. Dean knows him. He knows this is the kind of surprise that must be fastidiously kept secret so he can make it as killer as possible for Sammy. 

 

Oh, man. Dean’s jittery. Dean’s got the jitters. He doesn’t know how it’ll all go down, he doesn’t know shit, actually, but every reaction he can think of from Sam makes it all worth it.

 

Hopefully. 

 

He doesn’t consider researching to be his forte, but he sure as hell is a creative thinker. He can find a way to pop the question to Sam, to get a ring that isn’t bullshit, to somehow solidify it in a way that matters to them. A ceremony of sorts, he guesses.

 

He spends the rest of the day in his room, scribbling away in a bent old spiral-bound notebook.

 

Sam comes knocking right before dinner, head sticking into the room. His eyes are wide and questioning, and Dean’s heart does an electric little squeeze at the marvel of Sam and what is to come.

 

“...Hey,” Sam says, taking a single step in, like he’s stepping across an icy puddle. Dean closes the notebook as casually as he can and pushes it aside. “You wanna get something to eat?”

 

“Gimme a couple minutes,” Dean says. “I’ll meet you by the door.”

 

Sam nods, blinking. “Uh, sure,” he says. He pauses, looking conflicted. “See you then.”

 

Dean salutes. Sam backs out of the room and closes the door behind him, being careful to close it without a noise.

 

Dean pulls the notebook back into his lap and looks down at it, narrowing his eyes, brows pushing together. He nibbles on the eraser of the pencil in his hand, re-reading his rushed and scrawled list of ideas. 

 

There are a few good ones, ones with potential, and a few that are just garbage. They’re either the bad kind of old-lady-romance-novel cheese or they just don’t light up. 

 

They’ve had meaningful moments throughout their lives, things that shaped the entire year, stuff like that, and they didn’t need a proper stage to make it right. They’ve had heart-to-hearts in rest stop bathrooms with wet noises coming from one stall over. They’ve had them in lush, green forests on cool summer nights, with frothing black dogs on their tails.

 

But Dean can’t help but obsess over the details. Sure, if he gave a ring to Sam in a diner fifteen minutes from now, it would be good, Sam would love it, but Dean’s never really been given the chance to do something this significant for Sam before. They’ve held little holidays, presented gifts, gone on Vegas pilgrimages and the rare vacation, but this is different.

 

Dean circles his two favorite ideas and spends a couple of minutes shaping them out and testing them out in his head. He gets lost in a daydream but snaps out of it immediately, feeling a dull little tinge of guilt at the image of Sam waiting for Dean by the door, willing to stay there forever.

 

Dean hides the notebook under his mattress and grabs his coat and his keys. He power walks down the hall and over to Sam, nodding at him as he approaches. “So, where to?”

 

“Anywhere works,” Sam says, shrugging. His mouth gets a little pinched as he looks Dean up and down, that nerd-boy careful scrutiny filling his features. Dean immediately throws up a few walls between them and pushes down the shitty feelings it gives him. 

 

“You okay?” Sam asks after a pause, shuffling closer. “I haven’t really seen you since this morning.”

 

Dean scoffs and Sam takes a step back. “We’re good, Sammy,” Dean says. “I promise. Now, I’m gonna stuff my face with some tacos.” He pushes past Sam and clambers up the steps. Sam’s silent behind him.

 

Dean’s heart flutters around in his chest, making him all warm and itchy all over. He’s grateful for the coat. If Sam saw the sweat on his back, he’d definitely know something was up.

 

Dean’s just gotta make it through dinner. That’s all. Then he can finalize plans n’ shit and get everything prepared. There’s no real limit on their break, but Dean can’t help but feel like the next big update on the latest shitfest threatening to end the world won’t wait for more than another couple of days.

 

Dean has to do this now.

 

Oh god. He feels like a teenage girl in the best possible way. When was the last time he looked forward to something like this?

 

Dean’s stomach rumbles, intruding on his more-than-brotherly thoughts, and he lets his base instincts guide him into the Impala and out onto the road.

 

***

 

Tacos help him relax, and Sam seems to shed his suspicions and loosen up some. Or maybe it’s just the beer. 

 

They slide into the same side of a booth, and Dean eats all the appetizers in about seven seconds while they wait for the main course. 

 

Conversation is easy. Really, it’s never hard with Sam, but Dean is a geyser now, desperate to share what he’s doing but thankfully possessing some self-restraint. Instead, though, he’s talking Sam's’ ear off about the most random shit.

 

Judging by the goofy smile his little brother’s donning, paired with those damn soft puppy eyes, Sam seems to be enjoying it, though, and with each drink he finishes, he leans further and further into Dean’s space, Sam-scent spinning all around Dean, cloying, sweaty, perfect. Dean’s drunk in more ways than one. He puts a hand on Sam’s thigh.

 

After the waitress brings over a tray full to bursting with tacos, talk stops for the time being as Dean stuffs his gullet. Sam’s not as enthusiastic, but he’s got a taco just as disgusting as Dean’s. Dean pauses in his wolfish movements to watch Sam munch on meat and lick sauces of various kinds off of his lips. Sam grunts when he eats. Dean doesn’t think Sam’s ever been aware of that particular trait and Dean is sure as hell not gonna tip him off. Sam’s tongue peeks out to swipe at a stray piece of lettuce. Mmmm.

 

Sam’s eyes skate to his for a second but immediately return, widening. “Dude,” Sam says, through a mouth full of food. “You’re checking me out now? That’s gross.”

 

“Shaddup,” Dean grins, swatting Sam on the arm. “You know how I like my meat. And my Sam meat.”

 

Sam snorts hard enough to choke for a split second, giggling like an idiot as he drinks some water to ensure he doesn’t die. Dean can’t stop smiling, and he watches Sam go all rosy, and fuck. There is nothing better than a drunk, happy, relaxed Sammy. Such a rarity must be treasured.

 

“This is good, right?” Dean asks, turning to speak right into Sam’s ear, patting him on the knee. “I mean. We’re having a good time.”

 

Sam swallows, peering at him with a catlike curiosity. “Yeah,” he says, wiping his palms on the seat of his pants. “Why?”

 

“Nothin’,” Dean says. Sam doesn’t look convinced, so he repeats it. “Dean needs more tacos,” he declares, reaching forward and picking another one up off his plate.

 

He watches Sam roll his eyes out of the corner of his eye. Sam takes a big swig of his beer and leans back against the squeaky vinyl, peering around the bar with loose bones.

 

Sam only has one more taco and Dean loses count of how many more he has. It’s enough to make his stomach uncomfortably full. He’s not looking forward to any bathroom breaks any time soon. And any activity tonight will be strictly relegated to cuddling.

 

They finish up rather quickly, and Sam leaves a nice tip for the waitress. Dean’s sad to go but he’s been anxious to keep planning things, to rehearse, whatever, all that good stuff.

 

The right home is fast and quiet, but not a bad quiet, a tired-sated quiet. They clamber into the Bunker together, bodies brushing, and Sam nibbles at him once on the corner of his jaw but Dean’s too distracted to return the favor.

 

Sam walks into Dean’s- their- room and tosses his coat over the desk chair. He flops onto the bed, mattress squeaking under his weight, and all Dean can see is the tiny, silver glint of the metal spirals binding the notebook together, right below Sam’s dangling arm.

 

Sam clearly has a few ideas about tonight. Dean takes a breath. He’s always hated letting Sam down. It leaves an almost sulfuric tinge to Dean’s breaths, like he’s gonna throw up or get possessed. Anything negative with Sammy sucks, clearly, but Dean has vivid memories of their childhood, of not letting Sam get a toy they can’t afford and Dad says would clutter up the Impala, of successful school semesters filled with new friends cut short. This is no better.

 

“Sammy…” Dean says, staying a foot or so away from the bed. He looks down into Sam’s watery, semi-sober eyes. “Not tonight, man.”

 

Sam tries not to look too put out. He nods, understanding, too charitable for Dean’s suspicious motives. “Okay,” he says, rolling over to stick to his half of the bed.

 

Dean can’t get himself to ask Sam to leave. He might be filled with unreleased energy, with ideas, with shitty beer, but he knows that step would be a kind of “fuck you” to Sam and that is the absolute last thing he needs right now.

 

He shucks his clothes off and crawls into bed, staying as close to his side as possible, turned away from Sam. He plans in his head instead of on paper, though he gets restless and anxious when he has a new idea, worried he’ll lose it before morning if it isn’t put down somewhere.

 

He’s always preferred paper to electronics, is a bit more traditional than Sam in that way, but he resorts to pulling out his phone and opening up a new note, tapping away his latest updates to the mental marriage schematic with abominable grammar and zero punctuation.

 

***

 

Dean falls asleep after texting Cas, phone still loosely held in his hand, and doesn’t stir when Sam carefully raises the sheet up and slips soundlessly out of bed, padding to the door and taking a lingering look at Dean before he leaves the room, shuffling down the hall with his arms around his waist. The tile underfoot is cold and he feels even chillier.

 

He steps into his old room. Now that most of his things have been moved into Dean’s room, it’s even more Spartan and soulless than before. It feels like a bricked-up little jail cell, and he doesn’t sleep well alone, never has. 

 

He stares at the ceiling all night long and tries not to think of the past several hours and the emotional loops they’ve taken him on.

 

***

 

Dean wakes bright and early, around the same time as the sun. He grunts, slurping up drool and glaring at the world, trying to locate what woke him so early. He’s not as young as he used to be, and the several beers have blessed him with a slight hangover and a mid-grade headache.

 

He locates the source of unrequested consciousness. It’s a little vibratey bastard stuck under his ass, screaming like the dickens. He wrestles his phone out from under him with rubbery hands and squints at the tiny screen.

 

WAKE UP ASSHOLE - TODAY’S THE DAY

 

His eyes widen and he swears, rolling out of bed and tumbling to a heap on the floor. His stupid goddamn brain. Hunting instincts his ass. Fuck.

 

He looks to the other side of the bed and finds it empty. He frowns, peeking into the attached bathroom. Nothing. He gets dressed quickly and gargles some mouthwash, rushing out into the hallway. It’s only a couple of steps to Sam’s old room. The door is left open a crack and he pushes it open with the tips of his fingers, peering into the gap.

 

Sam’s curled up into a little ball on his side, facing away from the door. Dean’s heart goes all over the place, settling in his throat as a muddy lump. Great. The perfect start to any incestuous proposal is being a massive dick to your brother.

 

Dean steps into the room and puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, testing. Sam rolls over under the touch and blinks blearily up at Dean, corners of his mouth turned down. He looks like absolute shit. He looks like the same kind of brand of worn-down shit that he always does when they’re separated for long. God.

 

“Kiddo,” Dean says, clearing his throat past a lingering sleep-fog. “Hey, c’mon, why’re you in here? Up and at ‘em, m’gonna make breakfast.”

 

Sam goes loose, letting out a long breath, like a worn tire losing air. “‘Kay, gimme a minute,” he says, and Dean obliges. 

 

He closes the door behind him to give Sam some privacy and heads out into the library, heart pounding, new shirt already gaining pit stains. 

 

He prays for Cas, who appears almost immediately, popping into existence a couple of paces ahead of Dean, accompanied by a light breeze. “Dean,” Cas greets, bobbing his head. “Congratulations. If you ask me… I think it’s about time.”

 

“Yeah, uh, well,” Dean rubs at the back of his neck, knowing he’s probably patchy with pink and fidgety as hell. “Thanks. You think you can swing it?” He checks back down the hall, but they’re alone.

 

Cas perks up. “Of course,” he says. “Just give me the signal and I can help out. You know, for a while, you two were the only pair of soulmates on Earth. I was afraid Heaven would never witness a true connection between the two of you, but… you’re both still here.”

 

There’s so much information there that Dean doesn’t know what to land on first. He doesn’t know how to feel about Heaven- which had once tried to get them to play out the Apocalypse- labeling them soulmates, and finding value in their “connection.” He gets that soulmates (something he’s still trying to wrap his head around) are probably holy in their own right, but it really does just boil down to incest, even without anything sexual, even with just “more,” even if that stayed platonic or romantic. 

 

Cas pipes up, sensing his thoughts. “You do know that cultural taboos are inherently subj-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean says, waving him off. “But there’s good reason for this one.”

 

“Do you want to have a conversation about this?” Cas asks, and Dean hates the smile in his voice.

 

“No. Seeya, Cas,” Dean says, and the last thing he sees is a fond little head-shake before he’s alone again.

 

Dean heads to the kitchen and initiates Phase One.

 

***

 

Dean hears footsteps at the exact perfect time; he can thank Sam’s sensitive nose for that.

 

Sam steps into the room like a doe steps into an open field. His eyes are just as wide, too, eyebrows shooting up and adorable forehead creases multiplying as he takes in the spread Dean’s got on the massive kitchen counters.

 

“What’s this?” Sam asks, sweatpants swishing as he gains more courage and moves into the kitchen proper, coming to a stop across the island from Dean. His hands tentatively curl around the edge of the countertop like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch. 

 

“Do you have a hangover?” Dean asks instead of answering. “Because if you’re not feeling okay today, this can all wait. I just had something planned, but it’s not urgent.”

 

He cringes internally at that last lie and Sam zeroes in on it, moving around the counter to brush his shoulders with Dean. “You had something planned?” he repeats. “I’m fine, Dean, this all looks delicious, thank you.”

 

He’s so soft and grateful and Dean gets struck with the image of an awkward teenage Sam in a crisp dress shirt, mingling with parents and peers after an Orchestra concert in middle school. He’d blended in but stuck out like one light had been left onstage, highlighting the stiffness of his shoulders.

 

“Dude,” Dean says, knocking Sam’s shoulder in response, “today’s for us, okay? So just enjoy it.”

 

Sam smiles, finally, and gives Dean a brief look before returning his eyes to the counter.

 

It’s pretty impressive, Dean admits. He’d been half-tempted to just call Cas back in and ask for some teleported fancy shit, like those flower baskets made of fruits and chocolate, but he wanted to do it all himself. He wanted to create things for Sam.

 

So he’d just had Cas teleport in all the ingredients.

 

So here they are, surrounded by peanut butter and banana sandwiches, white chocolate chip pancakes, homemade sugary latte concoctions, omelettes stuffed full of veggies, and a giant bowl of Sam’s favorite and very difficult to find marshmallow cookies.

 

The moment breaks when Sam turns to grab some plates, handing one off to Dean. In silence, they spread apart, grabbing various foods. Dean might not be a big fan of the sandwiches but he loves the omelettes and made some plain pancakes for himself, along with a cup of black coffee. 

 

They sit next to each other at the table, thighs brushing, Dean spending all of his energy on linking his ankle with one of Sam’s in the most casual, lacking-of-meaning manner.

 

Sam’s first bite is omelette, and his eyes flutter closed, head tilted back as he chews. He moans, scraping another big piece into his mouth. He looks at Dean and says thanks once more through his mouthful. Dean waves him off.

 

They finish their plates but neither of them get up, instead lingering at the table, close together and quiet. 

 

“This is why I couldn’t last night,” Dean blurts. Sam’s eyes skate over to him. “I had to plan things… things you woulda pulled outta me right away.”

 

Sam nods, slowly at first, eyes far away. “So, we are good,” he says, stressing the “are” in a way that makes Dean’s heart flop.

 

“‘Course,” Dean says, giving him what he hopes is a meaningful look. “We’re great.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Good.” Dean coughs. “There’s more, so if you’re ready-”

 

“Not just yet,” Sam interrupts quietly.

 

Dean leans back, stretching out his feet under the table. Sam’s big toe pokes his heel.

 

***

 

Dean makes them both get dressed in something more decent before Phase Two starts. Dean usually couldn’t give a single fuck if they were in messy, sleepy clothes in public, but the occasion warrants at least a plaid shirt, maybe even one without wrinkles and tiny blood stains. 

 

Sam comes out of his room in Dean’s favorite outfit. It’s one of the shirts Sam got last year, the ones that are magically tailored to highlight Sam’s broad shoulders and skinny little hips. It’s a soft, red plaid, and he’s wearing the jeans that make his ass look pretty great, not that Dean’s an expert in Sam’s pants wear. 

 

They head out the front door and Sam immediately goes for the Impala.

 

Dean stops right outside the Bunker door. Sam turns to peer questioningly at Dean, gesturing to the car. “Kid,” Dean calls out. “C’mere.”

 

Sam walks back. He doesn’t ask. 

 

Dean sends up a prayer and Cas is there a second later, greets Sam a second after that, and touches them both on the forehead a second after that.

 

It hasn’t even been half a minute since they’d stepped out the bunker when they’re standing in center of an endless sea of tall, spindly trees of all kinds: White Birches, Douglas Firs, Quaking Aspens, just the two of them.

 

Sam does a slow circle, eyes looking up to the forest canopy above them and the gentle sunlight shining down through the breaks in the leaves.

 

Even without context, it’s obvious that the forest they’re in is massive, with rising hills and pine-needle carpeting. 

 

Sam turns his eyes back to Dean. “Where?” he asks, and his voice is a half-whisper.

 

“Stop one of many like this,” Dean says. “Grand Tetons.”

 

Sam seems to explode in a punched moment of awe and excitement. “Grand Tetons?!” he repeats, voice cracking in excitement. “But--I never-”

 

“Now ya have,” Dean says, grinning widely. “Where to? I have a map. We have-” Dean checks his watch- “about an hour.”

 

Sam gestures for the map, hand snapping open and closed impatiently. Dean hands it over and Sam has it open on the ground a moment later, finger tracing trails, shaking when they land over the tops of the most impressive mountain peaks.

 

“There’s a path down to the lake that has the best view of the mountains,” Dean tells Sam. “There?”

 

“Yes,” Sam says, like no other answer exists.

 

They move in silence, Sam in front with the map in his hands and the step of a man with immense purpose. They hike with the same discipline given to hunts, and weave their way down to the water with some time to spare, according to Dean’s schedule. There’re only a few people here and there, far enough away to be specks on a dashboard window. 

 

It’s beyond picturesque. It’s unreal. Dean’s seen pictures on the internet, pictures on billboards and in pamphlets in family restaurants across the continental forty-eight, but seeing it in person is surreal. It’s an expected surreal, a familiar wonder, but head-lightening all the same. Dean can’t wipe the smile off his face.

 

They look over Jenny Lake, admiring the backdrop and stone-and-white mountainsides, striking up into the sky with pointed, aged precision. 

 

Dean reaches over and holds Sam hand, freaking out a little bit, but the way Sam squeezes his hand and looks over at him makes any weird emotions scarce. Dean considers himself a good lover, capable of the kind of love Sam needs, but he hates that the littler things get him feeling like a child. 

 

He never lets go of Sam’s hand. He yanks him closer, and Sam stumbles into his arms, laughing, mouth still open when Dean kisses him and curls his arms around Sam’s body.

 

***

 

They bounce around the country, going from natural wonder to natural wonder, courtesy of Angel Airlines. Every place is made just for them, with few people, good weather, and better kisses. Dean feeds Sam grapes just ‘cause he can while they’re at a small coastal town in Massachusetts.

 

By the time they hit dinner, Dean’s starved and exhausted and has never felt better. Sam is a decade younger, eyes bright and wide and urgently, passionately taking everything in, the way Dean knows Sammy would’ve looked at Stanford if he’d had better circumstances.

 

Sam’s cheeks are pink and his shirt is absolutely drenched with sweat and Dean has never loved him more. He says it in his head, over and over, using it to calm down like he uses the touch of Baby’s wheel under his palms. 

 

They eat at Sam’s favorite diner in Columbus. It’s in the city proper, and has kickass burgers and an extensive vegetarian menu. The inside is modern but clearly pays homage to the fifties with chrome and neon.

 

They eat and chat, mostly letting off good steam. Sam rambles about mountains they’ve seen, rivers they’ve crossed, skies they’ve witnessed, rapid-fire, like someone’s pressed fast forward.

 

Sam doesn’t push Dean for answers about what the hell is going on or for spoilers about what comes next and Dean’s grateful. Sam is soaking it all up, taking it in, allowing himself to be surprised and enjoying the surprise.

 

They’re enjoying life. 

 

Dean’s still one wrong move away from a panic attack, but it’s okay. It’s good. 

 

After dinner, they go to Ann Arbor to walk along the Huron River in the Arboretum. The Impala is conveniently parked on Liberty Street when they walk back into the city, and Dean drives them to Matthei Botanical Gardens. Sam had loved this place so much at thirteen that he’d cried when they left and screamed himself raw at Dean and John when they’d told him not to.

 

Sam’s close to tears when they return there, too, but for a different reason. Dean feels the same way, even if his personal attachment to this place isn’t as deeply rooted or positive. It’s still the same, in the deep, lifeline ways that matter, but it’s so different, with trees gone, things repaired, buildings up and encroaching the land where they weren’t before.

 

Sam doesn’t recover when they leave and climb into the Impala. Dean can’t quite touch Sam’s sadness, but he knows it’s good, cleansing. There are so many things he can’t grasp, can only squint at from afar, and most of them have to do with the way they grew up, decades ago for him and centuries for Sam. 

 

He doesn’t dwell on it. He summons Castiel and has them brought to the second-to-last destination on the list, just as the sun begins to slip below the horizon and cast the world in bright copper.

 

***

 

Sam doesn’t say anything for a long time. Neither does Dean. 

 

Dean had joked about this place at first, sending little hints Dad’s way in case he decided they could have a few hours of freedom if cases ever took them to this corner of the United States. After years of only dreaming of the view, he grew obsessed. It became an inside thing for him and Sam, not a joke, but a constant reference that built into a desperate promise as the years went on.

 

Even when they had more personal autonomy with cases, even during the stranger moments of their lives when multiple farewell tours were had, they never came this way. Dean could never quite tell why.

 

Now, he knows. It had never quite felt like the right time in the past, even though the right time was completely mythical.

 

It is, now. Now is the right time to be here, now is the only occasion that could possibly grant them this gift.

 

Dean looks out over the Grand Canyon with his brother tucked into his side and the sun setting behind them.

 

The canyons in the earth are massive, like cracks wrought by the strike of a god’s hand. The streaks of oranges and reds perfectly complement the pink and yellow sunset. It’s one of those perfect sunsets, postcard-worthy, with long, streaking clouds like careful brushstrokes of a heavenly artist. 

 

Dean doesn’t know enough ways to describe it. It’s everything and more. Even now, he knows it’s one of the best moments of his life, and that he’ll look back on it fondly until the memories are worn and creased like his beloved polaroids of Mom and Dad.

 

The sky transitions to the perfect shades of purples, blues, and pinks, and Dean takes a breath. His entire body is trembling. He’s been scared before, he’s been numb before, but these kinds of jitters are new to him. He hates them and he loves them.

 

He gets down on one knee while Sam’s still taking everything in. He pulls a tiny, black lacquer box out of his pocket. Protective runes are inscribed in silver in the top, glinting gold in the evening sunlight.

 

Sam turns back to him, jolting in surprise when he sees Dean down in the red dirt. When he processes Dean’s pose and what’s in his hand, he swallows, mouth opening and closing over and over.

 

“Dean,” he says, throat thick. “Dean, what…?”

 

“Sammy,” Dean begins, meeting Sam’s eyes, “we are, uh, the only people on Earth, really. I’ve always kinda known that, you know? Even before we had this thing between us, wait, no, thing is a crappy word… this… love between us, I knew I couldn’t live without you. Even as a kid. It wasn’t duty, it wasn’t a job, even though sometimes I told myself that to explain away the confusing feelings. You matter to me so much. I think maybe I’m so antisocial because no one matches up to you, so why bother? 

 

“I’m on my knee ‘cause I was sitting next to you and I realized that we might never have a moment like this, not just like this, ever again. And I wanted to use it. I thought that you had to know what you mean to me and that I had to have a way to show it. A way to remind you. More than that. A promise. I wanted something to mark the date. So while it’s not traditional, I thought that we’d-”

 

“Give it to me,” Sam interjects, and laughs once, watery, covering his mouth with his hands. His eyes are watery and a tear falls down his cheek as Dean gapes at him. “Give it to me now, you idiot. Or, uh, yes? Yes. I want it, too. I promise.”

 

“Okay.” Dean opens the box. “You gonna let me finish?”

 

“What else is there to say?” Sam sniffs, smiling like a loon.

 

“I love you,” Dean says.

 

Dean takes the silver ring between his fingers. There are runes in gold along the outside, and an inscription for Sam’s eyes alone on the inside. It has two thicker silver bands, mirroring the ring on Dean’s finger. 

 

He stands up and Sam holds his hand out. Dean slips the ring onto his finger. “It’s an engagement ring and a wedding ring,” Dean explains. “I have everything planned.”

 

Sam takes Dean’s right hand and wiggles the ring off, pushing it onto Dean’s left hand ring finger instead. “I love you, too,” Sam says.

 

Dean’s throat and soul fill up, and he can hardly speak. “Good,” he finally coughs out, eyes burning, and blindly reaches out for Sam before the emotions can crest.

 

They share another searing, heated kiss, sealing the promise, saying everything.

 

When they break apart, Sam’s lip is shiny and curved up in a shy smile. “You know, I always wanted this,” he says, a hair’s width away from Dean. “I just never thought you did.”

 

“Bull,” Dean says, smiling back, just as gently. “You remember how much I love sappy shit.”

 

Sam’s lips lift higher in a silent smile. “So, what now?” he asks, pressing a fleeting, chaste kiss to Dean’s lips.

 

“There’s a dude who wants to say some things,” Dean says, and sends up a prayer.

 

***

 

They’re brought to the fifty-some acres behind the bunker. They never had a chance to clear out the overgrown paths, but maps had indicated a small lake in the dead center.

 

They stand on the shore at twilight, the world quiet all around them.

 

Chuck stands between the two of them as they face each other. “Guys,” he greets, nodding at both of them. Sam shoots Dean a strange look, lips pursing, but he nods back. Dean gives Chuck a  thumbs-up.

 

“So, we’re gathered here today for a pretty cool reason,” Chuck states, hands clasped in front of him. “Like, love, really. That’s the coolest reason. And I want you both to know that I always knew-”

 

“Ohh, god dam--fuck. Look, we know you see everything, don’t make it weird,” Dean says.

 

Chuck raises his hands, palms out, shrugging. “You’re the one who went there,” he says. “Anyway. Sickness and health, you’ve both done that, ‘til death do you part, you couldn’t handle that one but I guess it’s alright. Heaven recognizes your union. As your Father, you both have my permission. If you guys ever want kids, actually, children of soulmates are blessed, so I can give you guys a nice deal.”

 

“Thanks,” Sam says.

 

“Okay, I can tell that you two are both thinking about other things,” Chuck says. “So, you are now husband and husband. You may do your thing.” He flails his hand in a vague hand gesture and disappears.

 

Dean gets the pleasure of kissing Sam once more, this time softer and sweeter but just as perfect. 

 

They walk to the Bunker in the moonlight, hands loosely clasped. At the door, Cas stands. He has a bouquet in his arms. “A present,” he says, looking down at the ground. “I thought it was necessary for the occasion.”

 

Sam takes the flowers. “Thanks, Cas,” he says, and Dean can tell he means it.

 

“Congratulations,” Cas says, and disappears. 

 

It’s just them.

 

***

 

Dean doesn’t waste any time, getting Sammy pinned naked to the bed as soon as possible. He runs his fingers across the bands on Sam’s ring, feeling the warm metal under his hand. 

 

Sam’s breathing heavily, eyelids even heavier, eyes gone from blue-green-hazel to a dark, heady brown. His mouth is open, tongue flicking agitatedly against his tongue over and over, wanting.

 

They don’t need to share any words. They kiss and kiss and kiss, it never ends, and time never passes.

 

Dean gets out the lube without looking, location memorized after so many nights like this. It doesn’t take long to prep Sam, and Sam gets ansty, fucking himself down onto Dean’s fingers and writhing on the bed, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat.

 

“Dee,” Sam hisses, and Dean knows. He’s feeling the same. With energetic, twitchy hands, he slicks his cock up with the excess lube covering his palms. He gets Sam’s legs up over his shoulders and guides his cock to Sam’s hole. There’s only a brief moment of pressure before Sam’s muscles open up and let him in.

 

Dean lets out a breath and gives Sam a moment to adjust before pushing in a little deeper, sinking slowly, inch by inch. His nose is brushing against Sam’s by the time he’s sunk in to the hilt, balls brushing against Sam’s body.

 

He kisses Sam soundly and shallowly fucks him, lube squishing quietly with each thrust. Sam moans into his mouth, low, long, and needy. Dean eats up the noise, burning up inside and out.

 

He fucks into Sam faster, pulling out more and slamming all the way back in harder, enjoying the pronounced slap of skin on skin that results. Sam cries out, tossing his head back, body moving in sharp waves, one after another.

 

Dean lets loose, plunging his tongue into Sam’s mouth and fucking him with his mouth and cock. He laps up against Sam’s palate and Sam shivers, legs flexing against Dean’s shoulder.

 

Dean feels heat build in his tummy, faster than he’d like, and he drops his head to bury his nose where Sam’s neck meets his shoulder. The Sam-scent is strongest here, shooting straight down to his dick.

 

Dean loses his rhythm as instinct takes over and he fucks into Sam with lust-driven abandon, whimpering against Sam’s sweat-slick skin, balls slapping loudly against Sam’s hole. Sam’s tight and warm and oh-so good, so familiar, and the high-pitched noises of pleasure he make get louder and more frequent after Dean adjusts his position slightly and nails Sam’s prostate, over and over.

 

Dean wraps a hand around Sam’s hot cock and they come at the same time a mere instant later, crying out with the same desperate noises.

 

Dean’s hips piston a few more times, slowing down. He chases a last few moments of pleasure before stilling, fully seated inside his brother. 

 

Sam taps his shoulder with bird-weak hands and Dean lifts his head from Sam’s shoulder. They share a light, sloppy kiss and Dean pulls out, flopping onto the bed beside Sam.

 

When Dean feels like he’s got enough energy, he slides out of bed and stumbles over to the bathroom. He gently cleans Sam up, being extra careful around his sensitive hole.

 

They curl up together in pile of sated, warm skin. Dean falls asleep almost immediately, Sam-softness acting like a soporific. Sam follows soon after.

 

***

 

Life is the same but different after that. The weight of the ring on a new finger grounds Dean, and he sees Sam glancing down at his own hand and rolling the ring between his fingers several times a day. 

 

The easy, mind reading connection they share is even stronger, which Dean hadn’t even thought possible. Sam is more tactile, more open, and things feel like they’re kids again, like they’re out on the road looking for Dad, like they’re at peace.

 

***

 

Mary notices a difference in her boys. She feels happy for them. It had always been her dream for them to grow up close; she’d never had siblings of her own and knew the value of them always having each other’s back. 

 

If her eyes see the matching rings, both on left hands, well, her brain refuses the connection. 

 

All that matters is that something’s changed. All that matters is that they’re happy together.

 

***

 

Crowley’s smug and full of endless innuendos. Seeing his smile of approval gives Dean conflicting feelings. “It’s about bloody time,” Crowley says, “I always hated when you pretended you weren’t husband and wife.”

 

***

 

Jody doesn’t see them for a couple more weeks, but when she finally does, she knows immediately. She’d always known, but the confirmation sits low in her stomach. It’s not a stone, nor a lump in her throat, but it has substance nonetheless. She knows it’s not her business.

 

She ignores when Alex slides Claire a twenty dollar bill under the table, and changes the subject when Claire congratulates the two “old men” and Sam blushes a ludicrous shade of red.

 

***

 

Sam’s old room is converted into an extension of the library. Dean makes sure Sam won’t ever sleep in a separate room ever again if he can help it.

 

The woods are miraculously travelable behind the Bunker, with small, homely paths with thick canopies overhead, lending an air of intimacy perfectly suited to Sam and Dean. Newly blooming Honeysuckles line the dirt, sending their sweet aroma across the forest. Sam guesses that it’s a gift from some higher being, though as to who exactly is a mystery.

 

Even though they’ve rejoined the outer world and the hunt for a while now, their own world is sharper and smaller, with thicker walls. Even when things get dark, they have their own sun to light the way, found in each other’s souls. 

 

Together, they’re always home, always at home. 

 

The promise they share is one that can never be broken.

 

fin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so scarred from canon that this is exactly the kind of therapy I need :P
> 
> Thanks again to Bella (gothpandawincest) for the commission <3  
> AO3 made me delete my little spiel about commissions on my blog, which I think is crap, but hey. This message technically is just as well :/
> 
> Thanks so much all of you readers, y'all are the best, and your comments/kudos mean a lot. <3


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